‘Nor I yours,’ said Giles; ‘and we’ll leave it at that.’
‘As you like,’ said Chrysophylax, licking his lips again, but pretending to close his eyes. He had a wicked heart (as dragons all have), but not a very bold one (as is not unusual). He preferred a meal that he did not have to fight for, but appetite had returned after a good long sleep. The parson of Oakley had been stringy, and it was years since he had tasted a large fat man. He had now made up his mind to try this easy meat, and he was only waiting until the old fool was off his guard.
But the old fool was not as foolish as he looked, and he kept his eye on the dragon, even while he was trying to mount. The mare, however, had other ideas, and she kicked and shied when Giles tried to get up. The dragon became impatient and made ready to spring.
‘Excuse me!’ said he. ‘Haven’t you dropped something?’
An ancient trick, but it succeeded; for Giles had indeed dropped something. When he fell he had dropped Caudimordax (or vulgarly Tailbiter), and there it lay by the wayside. He stooped to pick it up; and the dragon sprang. But not as quick as Tailbiter. As soon as it was in the farmer’s hand, it leaped forward with a flash, straight at the dragon’s eyes.
‘Hey!’ said the dragon, and stopped very short. ‘What have you got there?’
‘Only Tailbiter, that was given to me by the King,’ said Giles.
‘My mistake!’ said the dragon. ‘I beg your pardon.’ He lay and grovelled, and Farmer Giles began to feel more comfortable. ‘I don’t think you have treated me fair.’
‘How not?’ said Giles. ‘And anyway why should I?’
‘You have concealed your honourable name and pretended that our meeting was by chance; yet you are plainly a knight of high lineage. It used, sir, to be the custom of knights to issue a challenge in such cases, after a proper exchange of titles and credentials.’
‘Maybe it used, and maybe it still is,’ said Giles, beginning to feel pleased with himself. A man who has a large and imperial dragon grovelling before him may be excused if he feels somewhat uplifted. ‘But you are making more mistakes than one, old worm. I am no knight. I am Farmer Ægidius of Ham, I am; and I can’t abide trespassers. I’ve shot giants with my blunderbuss before now, for doing less damage than you have. And I issued no challenge neither.’
The dragon was disturbed. ‘Curse that giant for a liar!’ he thought. ‘I have been sadly misled. And now what on earth does one do with a bold farmer and a sword so bright and aggressive?’ He could recall no precedent for such a situation. ‘Chrysophylax is my name,’ said he, ‘Chrysophy-lax the Rich. What can I do for your honour?’ he added ingratiatingly, with one eye on the sword, and hoping to escape battle.
‘You can take yourself off, you horny old varmint,’ said Giles, also hoping to escape battle. ‘I only want to be shot of you. Go right away from here, and get back to your own dirty den!’ He stepped towards Chrysophylax, waving his arms as if he was scaring crows.
That was quite enough for Tailbiter. It circled flashing the air; then down it came, smiting the dragon on the joint of the right wing, a ringing blow that shocked him exceedingly. Of course Giles knew very little about the right methods of killing a dragon, or the sword might have landed in a tenderer spot; but Tailbiter did the best it could in inexperienced hands. It was quite enough for Chrysophylax—he could not use his wing for days. Up he got and turned to fly, and found that he could not. The farmer sprang on the mare’s back. The dragon began to run. So did the mare. The dragon galloped over a field puffing and blowing. So did the mare. The farmer bawled and shouted, as if he was watching a horse race; and all the while he waved Tailbiter. The faster the dragon ran the more bewildered he became; and all the while the grey mare put her best leg foremost and kept close behind him.
On they pounded down the lanes, and through the gaps in the fences, over many fields and across many brooks. The dragon was smoking and bellowing and losing all sense of direction. At last they came suddenly to the bridge of Ham, thundered over it, and came roaring down the village street. There Garm had the impudence to sneak out of an alley and join in the chase.
All the people were at their windows or on the roofs.
Some laughed and some cheered; and some beat tins and pans and kettles; and others blew horns and pipes and whistles; and the parson had the church bells rung. Such a to-do and an ongoing had not been heard in Ham for a hundred years.
Just outside the church the dragon gave up. He lay down in the middle of the road and gasped. Garm came and sniffed at his tail, but Chrysophylax was past all shame.
‘Good people, and gallant warrior,’ he panted, as Farmer Giles rode up, while the villagers gathered round (at a reasonable distance) with hayforks, poles, and pokers in their hands. ‘Good people, don’t kill me! I am very rich. I will pay for all the damage I have done. I will pay for the funerals of all the people I have killed, especially the parson of Oakley; he shall have a noble cenotaph—though he was rather lean. I will give you each a really good present, if you will only let me go home and fetch it.’
‘How much?’ said the farmer.
‘Well,’ said the dragon, calculating quickly. He noticed that the crowd was rather large. ‘Thirteen and eightpence each?’
‘Nonsense!’ said Giles. ‘Rubbish!’ said the people. ‘Rot!’ said the dog.
‘Two golden guineas each, and children half price?’ said the dragon.
‘What about dogs?’ said Garm. ‘Go on!’ said the farmer. ‘We’re listening.’
‘Ten pounds and a purse of silver for every soul, and gold collars for the dogs?’ said Chrysophylax anxiously.
‘Kill him!’ shouted the people, getting impatient.
‘A bag of gold for everybody, and diamonds for the ladies?’ said Chrysophylax hurriedly.
‘Now you’re talking, but not good enough,’ said Farmer Giles. ‘You’ve left dogs out again,’ said Garm. ‘What size of bags?’ said the men. ‘How many diamonds?’ said their wives.
‘Dear me! dear me!’ said the dragon. ‘I shall be ruined.’
‘You deserve it,’ said Giles. ‘You can choose between being ruined and being killed where you lie.’ He brandished Tailbiter, and the dragon cowered. ‘Make up your mind!’ the people cried, getting bolder and drawing nearer.
Chrysophylax blinked; but deep down inside him he laughed: a silent quiver which they did not observe. Their bargaining had begun to amuse him. Evidently they expected to get something out of it. They knew very little of the ways of the wide and wicked world—indeed, there was no one now living in all the realm who had had any actual experience in dealing with dragons and their tricks. Chrysophylax was getting his breath back, and his wits as well. He licked his lips.
‘Name your own price!’ he said.
Then they all began to talk at once. Chrysophylax listened with interest. Only one voice disturbed him: that of the blacksmith.
‘No good’ll come of it, mark my words,’ said he. ‘A worm won’t return, say what you like. But no good will come of it, either way.’
‘You can stand out of the bargain, if that’s your mind,’ they said to him, and went on haggling, taking little further notice of the dragon.
Chrysophylax raised his head; but if he thought of springing on them, or of slipping off during the argument he was disappointed. Farmer Giles was standing by, chewing a straw and considering; but Tailbiter was in his hand, and his eye was on the dragon.
‘You lie where you be!’ said he, ‘or you’ll get what you deserve, gold or no gold.’
The dragon lay flat. At last the parson was made spokesman and he stepped up beside Giles. ‘Vile Worm!’ he said. ‘You must bring back to this spot all your illgotten wealth; and after recompensing those whom you have injured we will share it fairly among ourselves. Then, if you make a solemn vow never to disturb our land again, nor to stir up any other monster to trouble us, we will let you depart with both your head and your tail to your own home. And now you shall take such strong
oaths to return (with your ransom) as even the conscience of a worm must hold binding.’
Chrysophylax accepted, after a plausible show of hesitation. He even shed hot tears, lamenting his ruin, till there were steaming puddles in the road; but no one was moved by them. He swore many oaths, solemn and astonishing, that he would return with all his wealth on the feast of St Hilarius and St Felix. That gave him eight days, and far too short a time for the journey, as even those ignorant of geography might well have reflected. Nonetheless they let him go, and escorted him as far as the bridge.
‘To our next meeting!’ he said, as he passed over the river. ‘I am sure we shall all look forward to it.’
‘We shall indeed,’ they said. They were, of course, very foolish. For though the oaths he had taken should have burdened his conscience with sorrow and a great fear of disaster, he had, alas! no conscience at all. And if this regrettable lack in one of imperial lineage was beyond the comprehension of the simple, at the least the parson with his booklearning might have guessed it. Maybe he did. He was a grammarian, and could doubtless see further into the future than others.
The blacksmith shook his head as he went back to his smithy. ‘Ominous names,’ he said. ‘Hilarius and Felix! I don’t like the sound of them.’
The King, of course, quickly heard the news. It ran through the realm like fire and lost nothing in the telling. The King was deeply moved, for various reasons, not the least being financial; and he made up his mind to ride at once in person to Ham, where such strange things seemed to happen.
He arrived four days after the dragon’s departure, coming over the bridge on his white horse, with many knights and trumpeters, and a large baggage-train. All the people had put on their best clothes and lined the street to welcome him. The cavalcade came to a halt in the open space before the church gate. Farmer Giles knelt before the King, when he was presented; but the King told him to rise, and actually patted him on the back. The knights pretended not to observe this familiarity.
The King ordered the whole village to assemble in Farmer Giles’s large pasture beside the river, and when they were all gathered together (including Garm, who felt that he was concerned), Augustus Bonifacius rex et basileus was graciously pleased to address them.
He explained carefully that the wealth of the miscreant Chrysophylax all belonged to himself as lord of the land. He passed rather lightly over his claim to be considered suzerain of the mountain-country (which was debatable); but ‘we make no doubt in any case,’ said he, ‘that all the treasure of this worm was stolen from our ancestors. Yet we are, as all know, both just and generous, and our good liege Ægidius shall be suitably rewarded; nor shall any of our loyal subjects in this place go without some token of our esteem, from the parson to the youngest child. For we are well pleased with Ham. Here at least a sturdy and uncorrupted folk still retain the ancient courage of our race.’ The knights were talking among themselves about the new fashion in hats.
The people bowed and curtsied, and thanked him humbly. But they wished now that they had closed with the dragon’s offer of ten pounds all round, and kept the matter private. They knew enough, at any rate, to feel sure that the King’s esteem would not rise to that. Garm noticed that there was no mention of dogs. Farmer Giles was the only one of them who was really content. He felt sure of some reward, and was mighty glad anyway to have come safely out of a nasty business with his local reputation higher than ever.
The King did not go away. He pitched his pavilions in Farmer Giles’s field, and waited for January the fourteenth, making as merry as he could in a miserable village far from the capital. The royal retinue ate up nearly all the bread, butter, eggs, chickens, bacon and mutton, and drank up every drop of old ale there was in the place in the next three days. Then they began to grumble at short commons. But the King paid handsomely for everything (in tallies to be honoured later by the Exchequer, which he hoped would shortly be richly replenished); so the folk of Ham were well satisfied, not knowing the actual state of the Exchequer.
January the fourteenth came, the feast of Hilarius and of Felix, and everybody was up and about early. The knights put on their armour. The farmer put on his coat of home-made mail, and they smiled openly, until they caught the King’s frown. The farmer also put on Tailbiter, and it went into its sheath as easy as butter, and stayed there. The parson looked hard at the sword, and nodded to himself. The blacksmith laughed.
Midday came. People were too anxious to eat much. The afternoon passed slowly. Still Tailbiter showed no sign of leaping from the scabbard. None of the watchers on the hill, nor any of the small boys who had climbed to the top of tall trees, could see anything by air or by land that might herald the return of the dragon.
The blacksmith walked about whistling; but it was not until evening fell and the stars came out that the other folk of the village began to suspect that the dragon did not mean to come back at all. Still they recalled his many solemn and astonishing oaths and kept on hoping. When, however, midnight struck and the appointed day was over, their disappointment was deep. The blacksmith was delighted.
‘I told you so,’ he said. But they were still not convinced.
‘After all he was badly hurt,’ said some.
‘We did not give him enough time,’ said others. ‘It is a powerful long way to the mountains, and he would have a lot to carry. Maybe he has had to get help.’
But the next day passed and the next. Then they all gave up hope. The King was in a red rage. The victuals and drinks had run out, and the knights were grumbling loudly. They wished to go back to the merriments of court. But the King wanted money.
He took leave of his loyal subjects, but he was short and sharp about it; and he cancelled half the tallies on the Exchequer. He was quite cold to Farmer Giles and dismissed him with a nod.
‘You will hear from us later,’ he said, and rode off with his knights and his trumpeters.
The more hopeful and simple-minded thought that a message would soon come from the court to summon Master Ægidius to the King, to be knighted at the least. In a week the message came, but it was of different sort. It was written and signed in triplicate: one copy for Giles; one for the parson; and one to be nailed on the church door. Only the copy addressed to the parson was of any use, for the court-hand was peculiar and as dark to the folk of Ham as the Book-latin. But the parson rendered it into the vulgar tongue and read it from the pulpit. It was short and to the point (for a royal letter); the King was in a hurry.
‘We Augustus B. A. A. P. and M. rex et cetera make known that we have determined, for the safety of our realm and for the keeping of our honour, that the worm or dragon styling himself Chrysophylax the Rich shall be sought out and condignly punished for his misdemeanours, torts, felonies, and foul perjury. All the knights of our Royal Household are hereby commanded to arm and make ready to ride upon this quest, so soon as Master Aegidius A. J. Agricola shall arrive at this our court. Inasmuch as the said Aegidius has proved himself a trusty man and well able to deal with giants, dragons, and other enemies of the King’s peace, now therefore we command him to ride forth at once, and to join the company of our knights with all speed.’
People said this was a high honour and next door to being dubbed. The miller was envious. ‘Friend Ægidius is rising in the world,’ said he. ‘I hope he will know us when he gets back.’
‘Maybe he never will,’ said the blacksmith.
‘That’s enough from you, old horse-face!’ said the farmer, mighty put out. ‘Honour be blowed! If I get back even the miller’s company will be welcome. Still, it is some comfort to think that I shall be missing you both for a bit.’ And with that he left them.
You cannot offer excuses to the King as you can to your neighbours; so lambs or no lambs, ploughing or none, milk or water, he had to get up on his grey mare and go. The parson saw him off.
‘I hope you are taking some stout rope with you?’ he said.
‘What for?’ said Giles. ‘To hang myself??
??
‘Nay! Take heart, Master Ægidius!’ said the parson. ‘It seems to me that you have a luck that you can trust. But take also a long rope, for you may need it, unless my foresight deceives me. And now farewell, and return safely!’
‘Aye! And come back and find all my house and land in a pickle. Blast dragons!’ said Giles. Then, stuffing a great coil of rope in a bag by his saddle, he climbed up and rode off.
He did not take the dog, who had kept well out of sight all the morning. But when he was gone, Garm slunk home and stayed there, and howled all the night, and was beaten for it, and went on howling.
‘Help, ow help!’ he cried. ‘I’ll never see dear master again, and he was so terrible and splendid. I wish I had gone with him, I do.’
‘Shut up!’ said the farmer’s wife, ‘or you’ll never live to see if he comes back or he don’t.’
The blacksmith heard the howls. ‘A bad omen,’ he said cheerfully.
Many days passed and no news came. ‘No news is bad news,’ he said, and burst into song.
When Farmer Giles got to court he was tired and dusty. But the knights, in polished mail and with shining helmets on their heads, were all standing by their horses. The King’s summons and the inclusion of the farmer had annoyed them, and so they insisted on obeying orders literally, setting off the moment that Giles arrived. The poor farmer had barely time to swallow a sop in a draught of wine before he was off on the road again. The mare was offended. What she thought of the King was luckily unexpressed, as it was highly disloyal.
It was already late in the day. ‘Too late in the day to start a dragon-hunt,’ thought Giles. But they did not go far. The knights were in no hurry, once they had started. They rode along at their leisure, in a straggling line, knights, esquires, servants, and ponies trussed with baggage; and Farmer Giles jogging behind on his tired mare.